


And my scars remind me that the past is real

by do_androids_dream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Loneliness, M/M, Major Character Injury, Vampire Bites, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25083352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/do_androids_dream/pseuds/do_androids_dream
Summary: Geralt Whump Week, Day 5: Loneliness.Asked about one of his scars, Geralt recalls a time when he was still very young and realized for the first time what life - and especially what end - was in store for him.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	And my scars remind me that the past is real

_Every single lover has asked about his scars, even the whores. Most of them were interested in particular ones, although there were times when one wanted to know the story of each one. Emhyr never asked, not once, although he always takes the time to look at them - at him - very closely. But that night he does ask.The oddly shaped, thin scar in Geralt's armpit is easy to overlook - there are more impressive marks on this skin, which is why they are always so interesting for his counterparts. Larger, worse-healed scars tell of adventures, of interesting stories. Of monsters, of pain, perhaps of a mysterious cure - they are the stuff of dreams. He has stopped wondering about that a long time ago.  
  
So that night Emhyr asks about a scar for the first time, and it is one of the smallest, most inconspicuous scars, in a spot where it is hard to imagine that much damage has been done. Maybe he only asks because he wants to know if Geralt can actually remember each of these injuries - the thought seems really strange to him. He runs his finger over it, gently, almost carefully, as if this particular scratch was brand new. To him, it is. It's a strange spot, and the mark has a strange angle.  
  
"Is it impolite to ask where this comes from?" he says.  
Geralt's quiet laughter pierces through both their entwined bodies.  
"What's so funny?"  
"No one has ever wondered if they may ask," Geralt returns.  
"Really?"  
  
Emhyr watches him closely. He's still not sure exactly when the witcher is trying to be funny - at least he has a strange sense of humour. Geralt, on the other hand, finds it amusing that someone who could demand any information from any person cares to ask. This is new, and besides, he's never had a problem telling the stories before. In fact, he does remember each one.  
  
"It looks unremarkable, doesn't it? It is a good story. But it has no morals, nor does it end well."  
"Why doesn't it end well?" Emhyr demands to know.  
"Are you the sort of person who reads the end of a book first? You have to be patient. So, watch out: Once upon a time, there was a witcher …“_

  


* * *

  


Once upon a time, there was a witcher named Geralt of Rivia, and let's just say he was pretty young and pretty stupid. No, let's say he was pretty inexperienced, because it was his fourth year on the Path, so he was still a bit like a baby learning to walk. There was a lot of wastage in those first years: most of them were happy if they survived the first year.  
  
It was autumn, and with a bit of luck the witcher would return to Kaer Morhen this year, and with even more luck most of his brothers would be there. But it was likely that not all of them would return. There would be no mourning, no farewell celebrations, and certainly no funerals. But nobody likes to think about that when the autumn sun is still warm and its light makes even the darkest areas like Velen seem cosy.  
  
In those years almost every small village had a monster problem. A good time to gain experience: Lots of drowners, tons of ghouls and even the odd alghul, nasty chorts, endregas, disgusting kikimores, water hags - just name a monster, he has seen it. At least that's what he thinks, he is confident and maybe a bit too full of himself. These are the years before Skellige, for him a siren is just a mythical figure; it will be decades until Touissaint, before he sees a giant centipede for the first time …

  


* * *

  


_„What happens then?"  
Geralt raises his eyebrows.  
"Don't interrupt the narrator. But anyway …"  
  
He lifts the light blanket, exposing one thigh. Then he points to one of the larger scars on the inside, thin and faint against his pale skin. There are a few here, most by Nekkers actually, but this one is a little special.  
  
"The first reminder that these beasts are significantly longer than what is sticking out of the holes they dig in the ground above. Now, do you want to hear about this or shall I go on?"  
"No, go on. I particularly liked the part about the witcher being young and stupid.“  
"I bet you did. Now listen.“_

  


* * *

  


So the young and still somewhat inexperienced witcher believed that he already knew a lot of monsters, which he was wrong about, of course. He came through a village whose name he will not remember decades later, but in those years the names are not important either. There were enough villages, there was enough work. There was almost never enough coin, but he rarely went hungry.  
  
He directed his faithful horse - which was called Roach, of course - through the village, looked for the village headman and asked for work. The usual banter began, most of it stupid and redundant: "Whatcha got white hair, with a gob like that, you must have just learned to jerk off" and similar jokes. Four years weren't nearly enough time to get used to it, but he was making progress. No need to pity him anyway, for it was common knowledge that as a witcher he had no feelings - in every respect, so it didn't matter if someone threw rotten fruit at his head or insulted him.  
  
He remained polite, as he had been taught to be. So he asked for work, and they said, no, they don't need a witcher, it's a decent village. Actually. If it weren't for the old elven ruins, deep in the forest: a deserted, eerie place; a place for tests of courage for the young and for horror stories from the old. It was not a contract, because basically they seemed to have no problem and no real reason to be afraid, or at least they chose not to tell him. They told this story only because for some reason they thought that superstition, folklore and fairy tales would interest him. Or maybe just to get rid of him. And he was not yet so jaded - or so clever - that he would have missed the opportunity to explore a perhaps enchanted place. He was still very young. And he still believed that, if he should run into a problem - and the forests of those days had enough monsters - there would be someone who would pay him to take care of it. That was a mistake, it would take him quite a while to understand this.  
  
So the villagers saw him leave, watched as he turned towards the forest, and the whispering did not stop there. Some actually seemed surprised that he went there, but some called him an idiot to do so, and that might have told him something. However, he was an idiot in a way, so maybe not.

  


* * *

  


_"He's still an idiot today," Emhyr says sleepily against Geralt's shoulder. "Is this story going anywhere?"  
"Not if you keep insulting me."  
"Is that so? My apologies, master witcher. But there better be a really nasty monster coming before I fall asleep."  
"Not to worry. The monster will come. Stay awake, or you'll miss it.“_

  


* * *

  


The witcher rode into the forest, but soon had to dismount and leave his horse behind, because the forest was very dense and the ruins lay off the road. They were completely overgrown, it was easy to overlook them, unless you knew the area - or were a witcher.  
  
Now it was not very warm anymore, so deep in the forest, where the sun hardly shone through the dense treetops. But to the witcher the cold seemed almost unnatural - which was the first hint that something may be wrong. He penetrated further into the undergrowth, until the evidence of the elven culture became clearer and more visible: ancient, moss-covered stone slabs, perhaps benches; the remains of something similar to a bird bath. Perhaps this had once been a garden, but now, at any rate, there was nothing but green and dust and the somehow creepy feeling that he felt like an intruder.  
  
But since he was not allowed to have feelings, he was not afraid. A little adventurous, perhaps, but nothing more. Of course, that was quite stupid, and he would realize later that it can be very valuable and important to be afraid. But he roamed fearlessly through the legacies of the elves, and since there was nothing else here - neither monsters nor treasures nor adventure - he soon regretted he had set out here, for nothing.  
  
As in every good story, he saw a shadow out of the corner of his eye just at the moment he had already decided to leave. Quickly he turned around, and he felt as if he had heard a sound - not the sound of footsteps, nor of any animals in the undergrowth, more like a distant, unearthly laugh. Now his attention was caught, and he got down on his knees and searched the ground for traces; for anything that might indicate that there was or might have been someone else here. But these kind of tracks were easy to miss, at least if you didn't know what to look for, and he didn't know it yet. He kept moving in the approximate direction the sound came from. And then he saw her.  
  
Only a few steps away from him a woman was sitting on something that once might have been masonry, but now there were only meaningless stones, overgrown with ivy. She was a beautiful, young woman with long, scarlet hair, dressed in a simple robe. He wondered, of course, what she was doing in the middle of the forest, so he addressed her.

  


* * *

  


_"Is this turning into some kind of weird sex story now?“  
"What, why?"  
"If not, I wonder why it matters what color of hair she had," Emhyr counters.  
The remark could not be entirely dismissed, considering Geralt's past.  
  
"Of course it matters, you'll see why. And furthermore: The witcher is much too young, such experiences are still ahead of him."  
"For heaven's sake, how young is he?"  
"Maybe he's a late bloomer? In any case, nobody ever had scruples about sending very young men into battle, did they?"  
  
All he gets is a snort.  
"Stop interrupting me. So, he spoke to her …“_

  


* * *

  


He spoke to her, asked her what she was doing in the forest, and she looked at him thoughtfully.  
"People say this place is haunted," she eventually said.  
"All the more reason not to roam here," he replied.  
  
She stood up, moved towards him, and his witcher's medallion vibrated. That was the moment he put two and two together. Because he was young and inexperienced, but in the end not quite so stupid after all. The lessons were all still fresh, he could quote from the bestiary at any time. And he was a quick thinker - and far too bold in the face of danger. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, and the woman was surprised and stopped. She hadn't expected this noise, nor the horse that suddenly came trotting out of the bushes with some effort.  
  
The woman - only that she was not a woman, of course - looked at the horse curiously. It seemed as if she was trying to understand what it all meant, and that gave the witcher enough time to search the saddlebags for the one vial he needed, for the one potion he had never used yet before. Perhaps she too was still inexperienced, though certainly not young in the true sense of the word, but she did not stop him; she only watched curiously as he drank the potion. She continued to watch him as he hesitated briefly and reached for another vial that was in the bag strapped around his chest, to drink this too. Obviously she didn't understand what purpose this served - which was perhaps the only reason why he got the opportunity to do it at all.  
  
If she found it strange that he looked completely different after that, she didn't let it show. And why should she care - she was clearly not human, and although he hardly reminded of a human being now, that would not stop her.  
  
It was strange that she didn't say anything besides the few words she had uttered earlier. In later years he would meet others of her kind who were very talkative, loquacious almost. But she said nothing, just looked at him. Then she brushed her hair back behind one ear, and he saw that it was pointed. It was fitting that she had chosen the ancient ruins as her habitat. It was easy to mistake her for an elf - a mistake that would be fatal for anyone who dared to pass by here.  
  
A second later she suddenly stood very close to him. That was when he realized for the first time how fast these creatures were, and he was just glad she was not a bruxa. This encounter was yet to come, but that's another scar and another story. She was now so close that he could smell her, and whoever got that close had to notice that behind the beautiful facade hid horror. For she was an alp, of which her red hair and pointed ears were a testimony. The witcher knew as little about her as about all other vampires, at least in practice. In theory he knew enough of course, at least everything he had been taught.  
  
So he drew the sword, the silver sword of course, because she was susceptible to that. Her gaze was still just curious, but it was clear that she understood what he was holding in his hand and what purpose it served. Surprisingly she retreated, and a blink of an eye later she disappeared from his field of vision. He knew that these creatures were fast, but that they were so fast, he could not have known.  
  
She suddenly stood behind him, and it was only thanks to his excellent reflexes that her first blow came to nothing. The alp seemed to have instinctively understood that danger was coming from the witcher, so she used the moment of surprise. But he could still dodge. Her appearance had changed: she was now naked, but her pale, almost translucent body was not meant to look attractive. Her face was a grotesque grimace, the long, pointed teeth a clear warning; and her fingers were now horrifying claws.  
  
The alp attacked, and the witcher jumped back, rolled off, came back to his feet, and raised the sword just in time to fend off her claws, which struck the blade with a horrible noise. The horse got nervous and took off, and the fight went on. The witcher hit the alp a few times, but she hit him too, and her claws were as sharp as his blade. In the past four years some monsters had wounded him, and he already had one or two scars, and it always hurt. People might like to think that he had no emotions, but that didn't mean that he didn't feel anything. On the contrary: he felt every cut she made on him, felt every time her sharp claws tore his skin open, how the steel-hard tips pierced through his flesh. He could only hope that she felt his blows as well. In any case, they were both soon covered in blood, which looked strangely vulgar on her bare skin and only made her even more incited.  
  
She was fast, much faster than he could have imagined, and yet she was so unnaturally quiet. All the monsters the witcher had met before had made sounds: they hissed, shrieked or roared when they were hurt. But she made no sound. Her red hair had become disheveled, her face terribly distorted, no longer human, no longer beautiful. And then she jumped at him, in such a hasty movement that he neither saw her coming nor could have avoided her. He lost the sword, it slipped from his hand as she forced him onto his back with a tremendous force.  
  
Now he lay under her, she sat on his chest, took his breath. Her mouth was wide open, so that he could see her long teeth, the pointed teeth with the tips of which the paralytic poison dripped like some obscene precum. His arms were free, and he reached for her with one hand - to push her away, or to beat her; to do anything. She just knocked the hand away and then she bent over; she stank horribly of death and dying, and she sank her teeth into his neck.  
  
She drank his blood, and this feeling was almost worse than the pain of his ripped neck. It was pointless to try to tear her away from him, but at least he wouldn't give up without a fight. So the witcher desperately groped for the dagger he always carried with him on his hip. Though he imagined he could feel the poison entering his veins - and he had no idea what effect it would have on him - he eventually had the dagger in his hand, and he thrust it into her back. The alp hissed softly now - her first sound of misery - and finally let go of him. He used this moment to smack her in her face. It was of course a useless move, but it had the desired effect: She was confused for a second. He reared up and shook her off.  
  
Then he jumped to his feet, and although she was confused and hurt, she was actually still faster than him. He reached his sword at the same moment she caught him: his fingers closed around the handle, she leapt at him and threw him to the ground again. He held the sword, this time he held it tight, but she pulled his arm up, pinned him down. Then she thrust with her other hand. She took only her index finger, which now didn't even look like a finger anymore, which was now just a long, sharp weapon: a blade as sharp as a sword, only much thinner. She pushed this claw through his chest at the side of his armpit. It was a long claw, and it tore tissue and muscles and tendons along the way, stabbing at his ribs. The claw was as hard as iron, and it was so sharp that it pierced right through one, and it broke, which he felt very clearly. It felt like she had pierced his lungs, because for a moment he just could not breathe; and that pain was new, one he would never get used to.  
  
She was now half sitting on him again, pushing further and further, bending over him, drilling. But before she reached his heart, he managed to free his hand with the sword. He pushed, but because he couldn't aim, he hit her hand, he pushed in the sword so deeply that the wrist was only hanging on single tendons when he pulled the sword back. She hissed, much louder now, and yanked her hand back, but the claw got stuck, got stuck in him. And then, eventually, the alp started twitching uncontrollably. She put a hand to her throat and stared at him in disbelief. Because finally, the potion worked, and she staggered back a little; thick, dark liquid coming out of her mouth. He raised his sword once more, reared up, and he hit her neck with pinpoint accuracy. It is a rumor that severed heads fly for miles: in fact, it didn't get far, it landed not far from his own head, which had now sunk to the ground again in exhaustion. Her dull eyes stared into the sky. It took the body a second longer to realize that it was over - she fell down, twitching, killed by a good pinch of black blood. The one potion he had never had to take before.  
  
His strength was just enough to push the lifeless body away from him. The witcher thought that he would have something to tell when he returned to Kaer Morhen that winter. If he did return. For now, as the adrenaline left his system, he realized that he had won, and yet he felt defeated. He lay on his back in that godforsaken forest, among elven ruins, cursed ruins that could only serve as a test of courage at best, and he could barely move. He lay there, staring at the sky, wondering because there were no stars. The clouds were thick and there were no stars, and he found it cruel that he had to die without seeing stars. For now he was firmly convinced that he would die: The poison of the alp set in, and he was sure it would be fatal. Perhaps it had its good points, because little by little the pain would disappear. He bled from numerous wounds into the moss and grass beneath him, and he was bleeding inside, he felt that as well as every single cut. The rib she had broken hurt him the most; his breath escaped him whistling, and he tried to breathe shallowly. It still hurt. Most wounds were superficial, which did not mean that they did not hurt, but if he would have survived, most of these wounds would close and heal without any problems. But this one, that stitch on the side, that would scar, and what kind of ridiculous scar would that be?  
  
When they met in winter, they still proudly showed each other every single scar, at least the younger ones among them. Those experiences were still new, and every scar meant an adventure and a monster killed. But a funny little scar under the armpit was hardly suitable for showing off. However, that probably didn't matter anymore, because while the poison was flowing through his veins, her paralytic poison - her last, damned gift - he felt that he couldn't move his hands anymore to get to his potions. He could die from this poison or the toxicity itself, it did not matter.  
  
If he had ever thought about what it would be like to die - and after four years he usually didn't think about it - it wasn't like that: Not on the forest floor in a godforsaken place, while he felt his blood soaking the earth, beginning to stick to him. Not with all the pain that tore him apart. Not so young. And especially not so alone. He thought of all his brothers, he thought of the damned Vesemir - would anybody miss him? It was only logical that a witcher should die alone. No witcher would die in his bed, they said, but he certainly would die alone. That his only company would be the corpse of an alp was somehow ironic, the stuff of nightmares. This was the first time he really understood his fate. Those were the years where he still thought he was doing good to the world. But now he finally realized, that to this world, he did not matter. He stared up, the sky was still cloudy, still no stars. A fitting demise for a witcher: no company, no stars, no happy ending. He would die alone. 

  


* * *

  


_Geralt remains silent after this, and after a few heartbeats Emhyr looks at him in surprise.  
"That was it? That was the end? That's a pretty gruesome story, I must say."  
"I told you, it didn’t end well.“  
"But you survived.“  
  
Geralt shrugs.  
"None of it was fatal. The blood loss was considerable, of course, but the paralytic poison was actually helpful: The bleeding stopped. And because I could no longer move, there was no danger of moving the claw somehow, so that it would have punctured an organ after all. Eventually it was clear that I would not die, not even from the poison, but that poison worked all night."  
  
"So you lay in those ruins all night? All alone?"  
"It was pretty lonely," Geralt admits. “But there were many nights like that.“  
He is silent for a moment, lost in thought, until he feels Emhyr's lips on his shoulder.  
"But not anymore," he says."What happened then?"  
  
"Not much. Morning came, I very carefully pulled the claw from my armpit, I got up, I took care of the injuries, and rode with the head of the alp to the nearest duchy to claim money for it. There wasn't any, so I threw the head at the treasurer’s feet and went to the nearest tavern to get drunk."  
  
"Mmm," Emhyr ponders. "I still wonder if all this isn't a gross exaggeration. Maybe you made the story up just to impress me."  
Geralt laughs softly.  
"Why would I want to impress you?"  
"I have no idea. But you better not lie to your emperor."  
"You're not my emperor,“ Geralt replies automatically. "And I would never lie to you."  
  
But that is a lie, and they both know it._

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from ["Scars",](https://open.spotify.com/track/3TAtUJc4Sj913Cs5gBUeu0?si=DztqCCK5TSareU38gmMW7w) a song by Papa Roach (no pun intended!)


End file.
